I’d been out harrowing since early morning and was happy to see Maisie walking up, carrying a basket. A break was most welcome. I parked the tractor at the edge of the field and climbed down.
“Am I happy to see you! What did you bring me, love?”
“Coffee and two donuts. Second breakfast.”
“You just know what makes me happy, Maisie.”
I started taking bites from one of the donuts while she poured coffee from the thermos.
“There you go.”
“Mhhm! Nice and hot. Hits the spot on a cold Missouri morning.”
“Your lines are imperfect.”
“My what?”
“The lines you made with the tractor.”
“Oh. Hadn’t noticed.”
“They should be a lot straighter.”
“I must have been thinking of you.”
“Lame excuse. As if I were crooked!”
“Crooked no. Curvy yes.”
That elicited a chuckle.
“And you know how much I hate harrowing.”

“You want to become a photographer of nudes? – With your makeshift equipment and lackadaisical attitude you’ll never get anywhere, I can promise you that.” Said my uncle Said to me when I was sixteen but already more than sure of what I wanted in life.

And look where I am now … most successful nude photographer in all of Egypt, with the ladies coming running and flocking. They love my lackadaisical attitude. And my makeshift equipment has served me excellently, be it in desert dunes, hotel rooms or kings’ graves.

– Ghamal Abd el Hadr

Note
I received an e-mail from an unknown a while ago who called himself Ghamal Abd el Hadr. He wanted to know if I could help him publish his autobiography (from which the above two paragraphs are a short excerpt). I replied that I would see what I could do. Perhaps this excerpt, which I’m publishing here because it accidentally includes all three of this week’s words for 3WW (lackadaisical, makeshift and nude), will generate some interest in this man’s biography. I have not seen any of his photos and can therefore neither include one nor evaluate his work – which he claims to be prolific and widely known in his home country – in any way.

I was a black politician, and even though I was popular among a lot of people I also had a bunch of enemies. I knew this, and I also knew that it was for the usual reasons of envy, racism, competitiveness, power hunger, disagreement with my relatively incorrupt ways and, of course, downright plain nastiness the way it exists all over the planet. I’d just had a public appearance with lots of applause, hand shaking, shoulder slapping and words of praise – honest or oily and false. So I was completely unprepared for the quick, ruthless action of my enemies, which I followed from out of my body. I was a lifeless figure on the floor, some people were about to arrive on the scene – it was backstage, in some dark hallway. The shadowy perpetrators grabbed me by the feet and dragged me into some sort of tool and supplies room. There they opened the bottom drawer of a big red metal cabinet in the wall, threw out what was in it, and shoved me in. Bang. Drawer closed. They cleaned their hands by slapping them together, straightened their jackets and left the room. And I’d become invisible; I was gone as if I’d never existed.

There I was among high-powered officials, in Paris no less, and with a three-day program of meetings, gatherings, ceremonies and what not!
This evening included listening to Charles de Gaulle’s piano recordings we were to absorb from oblong recording media stored in spectacle cases in slots in the top of a big piece of dark wood furniture in the middle of a dark smallish room. Laid out this way to create the proper atmosphere I’m sure.
A bespectacled luminary looking like a cross between François Hollande and Jean-Claude Juncker was explaining which pieces to retrieve and listen to. The ones I picked up sounded good, similar to Glenn Gould. I had not known about this talent of the late general’s.
Many spectacle cases were empty, however. Previous visitors had obviously stolen the recordings. Even though I was certain this spectacle case music could not be played anywhere else.
I worried about having to slip away some time in between to buy decent clothes somewhere. White shirt, blue tie. Even shoes, because the only pair I had with me were casual, old, creased.
And I’d have to find a way to transport the five bottles of vintage Bordeaux that were waiting underneath my chair in the lecture hall.
Such an odd picture when you come in – a small wine rack underneath each chair. Filled with that special gift from the French government for special guests, paid with taxpayers’ money.